Stolen Secrets
by PrettyxLittlexWriter
Summary: You knew it was inevitable that you would cross paths with Sherlock Holmes again. You'd assumed that you'd moved on with the passing of time, but when you are thrown together again during a highly sensitive and dangerous case, you realize that 7 years has done nothing to heal old wounds...
1. chapter 1

"Ms. Y/L/N?" your secretary calls from your doorway, breaking your concentration. You blink several times trying to focus your eyes, which had been straining on the computer screen.

"Yes, Janet?" you ask, irritated at the interruption yet grateful for an excuse to take a break.

"There are two men here to see you," she explains, sounding slightly anxious. "They are… inquiring about Dr. Andrews."

"Police detectives?" You ask, leaning back in your plush leather chair and stretching the kinks from your neck. You'd already talked to so many officials about Dr. Andrews, but you knew that this investigation was far from over.

"No, not exactly," Janet says, wringing her hands.

"Not exactly?" you question, a cold, hard pit forming in your stomach.

"They say they are consultants, working with the police," she explained. There is a Dr. Watson and a Mr. --"

"Holmes?" you bite out, already knowing the answer.

"Yes, how did you --"

"Nevermind, tell them I will be with them in a moment," you say, reaching for your makeup bag that you kept in your briefcase. As Janet leaves, you pull out your mirror and appraise your appearance. A little powder, blush and some pale lipstick leave you looking refreshed. You stand and pull on your blazer, looking smart in a skirt suit set and pumps. With a deep breath, you steel yourself. You knew this day would come sooner or later and it would be best to get it over with.

You pull open your door and stride down the short hallway, heels clicking on the tiled floor as you pass Janet's desk and enter the small waiting area.

You see him and he sees you and your heart stops beating altogether. He hasn't changed a bit in 7 years. Tall, lean muscles hidden under a long coat, dark wavy curls, sculpted cheekbones and perfect lips. He stands and moves towards you, his long legs closing the distance quicker than you would have liked. You struggle to match his expression, cool, polite, unphased and completely unreadable.

"Y/N," he says, his hand extended out to you. His deep, smooth baritone voice sends a tingle right down your spine.

"Mr. Holmes," you say, giving him a quick, curt handshake before turning to his associate.

"Dr. Watson, I presume," you say, offering the chap a smile. "I am F/N L/N, Lead Analyst for the MODs Weaponry Development Division."

"John Watson, yes. Lovely to meet you," he says with a charming smile.

"What brings you two in today?" you ask, looking only at John.

"We are working with Detective Inspector Lestrade," he explains, "On the disappearance of Dr. Andrews."

"I've already told Lestrade everything I know," you explain, "Several times. As well as the Ministry's internal affairs department." You look directly at Sherlock. "I am not sure what more I can tell you."

"Just a few minutes Y/N," Sherlock says, his tone clipped and short. "Do you mind?" You do mind, but you don't want to cause a scene in the reception area.

"This way then," you say, turning and heading back towards your office. For some reason, it annoys you that he kept saying your name. It shouldn't have, it was your name and you weren't sure what else you'd have him do, but hearing it roll off his tongue, the way it used to, was making your blood boil.

You enter your office and round your desk, gesturing for the two to sit in the chairs opposite you. They settle in, as do you, folding your hands neatly on your blotter and waiting.

"Dr. Andrews worked for you," Sherlock states. You nod. "On what exactly?"

"Yeah, I can't really say," you reply, trying to sound apologetic and failing.

"Bioweaponry?" Sherlock asks. You shrug and Sherlock remains unphased.

"Do you recall where he went on his last assignment?" he questions.

"Yes," you reply simply. Finally, this elicits a frustrated sigh from the dark haired detective.

"Where then?" he asks, leaning forward.

"Can't say," you reply, enjoying this far more than you thought you would.

"I can get a warrant," he says, nonchalantly.

"Oh don't threaten me Sherlock," you laugh, finally getting to say his name. "I'm an upper level analyst at the MOD. Who the hell are you?"

"Look," Dr. Watson says, leaning in between the two of you. "We have reason to believe that Dr. Andrews was not kidnapped, but has voluntarily disappeared and we believe he may be attempting to sell information on his latest project. Anything you can tell us would be helpful." You sigh, and sit back, feeling even more tense than you had a second ago. He had just spoken your greatest fear aloud.

"I can't tell you much," you say quietly. "David Andrews was a quiet, polite, unassuming man. He was never late, he never called in sick, his reports were always on time. He was working on something… dangerous. I just can't imagine him doing something like this."

"Debt can make a man do just about anything," Sherlock says.

"Debt?" you ask, not convinced. "Dr. Andrews was paid quite handsomely, I assure you."

"Not all debt is monetary," Sherlock says, standing to leave.

"What does that mean?" you ask him. "What does he mean?" you turn to John.

"I assume your MOD background checks showed that Dr. Andrews was orphaned at a young age," Sherlock said, turning back to you. You nod, slowly. "And that he was raised by an aunt?" Again you nod. "Did those background checks show you that his aunt lived in an apartment building owned by one Terrance Walsh?"

"Terrance Walsh, the crime boss?" you ask, shaking your head. "No… no they didn't."

"Shame," he said, turning away again, placing a hand on the door knob. "Could have saved you an awful lot of time and headache." He pulled the door open and left without another word, his long coat trailing behind him.

"Wait," you call, dashing past John and out into the hall after him. "Wait," you say again as you reach him. You place your hand on his arm to slow him and he jerks away as if you've burned him. You recoil your hand as well, wishing to God you hadn't just done that. "Look, I can't talk here," you whisper, your eyes pleading with him to understand. He looks down at you, his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed. He's irritated. Very irritated. It's not a pleasant emotion that you've evoked, but it's something. Finally, you see his features softened almost imperceptibly.

"221B Baker Street," he says at last. You nod showing your understanding and then he's off again, disappearing around the corner.

"Thank you for your time," John says as he passes you, following quickly behind his friend.

"My pleasure," you say automatically, your eyes on still locked on the spot where Sherlock had been standing. After a few long moments, you catch yourself and straighten up, smoothing down your blazer and turning on your heel.

"You're not a damn kid anymore," you whisper harshly to yourself, vowing that Sherlock Holmes will not have the same effect that he had on you all those years ago. Not this time… not again.

* * *

It's pouring rain as you dash from your cab to the front steps of 221 Baker Street. You ring the bell and wait, holding your briefcase over your head and cursing your distracted brain for letting you leave your umbrella back at your office.

The double whammy of Sherlock Holmes striding back into your life along with the news of David Andrew's possible mob ties had rendered you pretty much useless. Now, you were here, at his home, sopping wet. Your rang the bell again and again and again and finally the door was yanked open by John Watson. You stumble inside and drip for a second on the mat.

"Sorry, forgot my umbrella," you grumble.

"Come on upstairs and we will get you dried up," John replies with a kind smile. You want to like him, you decide, but have serious concerns about his character since he does appear to be friends with Sherlock.

" You were friends with Sherlock once ," your inner monologue taunts at you and you grit your teeth as you follow John up the stairs.

Once inside, you see Sherlock at the kitchen table, looking down into a microscope. You wait for him to acknowledge you as John takes your soaking wet rain coat and hangs it for you on a coat hook.

"Can I get you a cup of tea? And maybe a towel? John laughs.

"Tea would be great, and just point me in the direction of your washroom," you ask. He does and when you return, you are slightly more dry and put together. You sit on the couch and Sherlock takes the chair to your right while John leans against the desk.

"You mentioned earlier that David lived in one of Walsh's buildings," you start. "And you think this ties them together somehow?"

"It does," Sherlock says, leaning forward. "It appears as if Walsh took young David under his wing, keeping him out of the blue collar crime life, but using him for more white collar endeavors. We also found several large funds transfers to his Aunt's bank account during David's years at university and later medical school. These transfers were from a dummy corporation that we were able to trace back to Walsh."

"But… why?" you ask, struggling to process this.

"Insurance," John answers. "As far as we can guess. He bankrolls a bright, successful young man, ensuring that he will have someone to care for him or help him out later. He sets him up with a nice life, no ties back to his organization, no one will suspect that one day, when he needs help, it will be Dr. Andrews that will he will be calling on."

"But you two figured it out?" you say, astonished.

"Well, one of us did," Sherlock smirks.

"Humble as ever," you murmur.

"How's your fiance?" Sherlock asks. You frown and subconsciously hide your left hand under your right.

"I don't have a fiance" you say evenly.

"Ah,yes," he replies, his voice taking on an air of condescension. "A recent development, I'd say… about three months ago. End of August?" You begin to feel ill as he pin points the exact time you'd called off the wedding. "You see," he said turning to John, "Her ring finger is tan except for the white band of flesh where her considerable diamond sat all summer, protecting the skin underneath it from the sun, keeping it pale."

"Stop it, Sherlock," John instructs, his voice firm.

"No, no, it's fine," he says. "She's the one who broke it off, isn't that right?" He looks at you, but you're too angry to answer. "Yes, it was. Still searching for something, are we Y/N? Still hoping to find that elusive soul mate? Still hung up on true love?"

"Sherlock!" John said, much louder this time. You force yourself from the couch, standing on shaking legs, rage coursing through your veins. You push past him and grab you still wet coat.

"Oh, no, I found true love long ago," you say as you pull it on and tie the belt around your waist. "Just my luck he turned out to be heartless bastard who could only love himself." And with that, you fled the flat, slamming the door behind you and bounding down the stairs.

You burst onto the sidewalk, chest heaving and stand in the rain taking a moment to compose yourself. Hot, angry tears burn at your eyes.

"For fucks sake," you yell, throwing your hands up as you realize you left your briefcase up there. You turn your collar up around your neck and turn to head back inside. As you reach for the doorknob, it's jerked away from you and you see John standing there, holding your bag.

"I am so sorry about that," he says, his sweet features all apologetic

"Don't apologize for him," you say. "I should have been prepared… I should have known better…"

"Look, I know it's not my business but why don't you let me buy you dinner and maybe you can fill me in on what exactly the nature of your relationship with Sherlock is." He gestures to Speedy's right beside you and you find yourself agreeing. It has been too long since you'd spoken about what happened all those years ago. Maybe it was time.

* * *

"Dinner with Y/N?" Sherlock asked John when he returned much later. Sherlock had changed into his pajamas and robe and was sitting in his chair, running a bit of resin up and down his violin bow.

"It was the least I could do after you were so bloody awful to her," he said, shaking the raindrops from his hair.

"And I am sure she told you all about… us?" he said.

"A bit, here and there," John replied, trying his best to be vague, but knowing this was a useless endeavor around Sherlock Holmes.

"And I am sure she told you all about how awful I was," he asked, blowing a bit of resin dust from the bowstrings.

"No actually," John said, heading to his room for the night, "That I could figure out on my own."

John sat on the edge of his bed and kicked off his shoes. He liked Y/N. She was nice enough, pretty, confident and intelligent. He'd enjoyed their meal and although he knew there were two sides to every story, the one that Y/N had relayed over dinner certainly helped shed some light on the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.

Downstairs, Sherlock placed the violin under his chin and brought the bow to bear on its strings, but he could hear no melody in his head. He played a few random notes before angrily tossing the instrument aside. He walked to the window and looked down on Baker Street below. It was getting colder outside and soon they'd be barraged with snow instead of rain. He'd never concerned himself with the feelings of others these days, sentiment being an emotion he categorically avoided. He'd rattled of his observations day after day, not bothering himself with whether or not his comments made the subject uncomfortable or not, not caring if he upset John or made the situation awkward.

But tonight's encounter with Y/N had left him feeling… Well… Feeling. And it was not something he'd experienced much of lately. He hadn't expected this and it was a terrible inconvenience because she knew more than she was telling them and she was absolutely vital to this investigation.

He turned and picked up the violin again, a song he'd not played in years taking shape inside him.


	2. Chapter 2

Across town, in a much nicer flat with a much nice view, you pull your thick warm robe tighter around yourself and rub at your hair with a towel. After a warm shower, you feel much better, but the interaction with Sherlock still weighed heavy on your mind.

Seven years had passed yet you were still the impulsive, emotional little girl you'd always been around him.

"God damn him," you say aloud to your empty apartment. You cringe as you recall your outburst, how you admitted that you'd had true love once. Memories tug at your heart and you raise right hand and cover the affected organ.

You force your thoughts from Sherlock to Andrews. Mob ties that the Ministry of Defense missed. It all seemed to be too random, too obscure. Pulling your iPad out of your work bag, you run a MOD search on Terrance Walsh, reading up on the notorious London crime boss until the wee hours of the morning.

You wake only after a few hours of sleep, used to operating at near exhaustion. You send word ahead to the office that you'll be late, you had an appointment at the prison and a few questions for Mr. Walsh.

The guards sign you in, pass you through a metal detector, search your bag, copy your driver's license and make you fill out a few forms. Then, and only then, are you shown into a room. Just like in the movies, there is a glass wall with a telephone on each side. You are alone, save for a guard stationed by the door behind you. You sit on the small stool and wait. Not long after, the door on the other side of the glass wall opens and you see a small, but hard looking man in handcuffs and leg shackles being led across the room towards you. He sits and lifts the phone, awkwardly, as his hands are chained together. You lift your handset.

"I don't know you," he says, his dark eyes boring into you.

"I know," you say, your voice firm and calm. "But I know you. And I know David Andrews." You study his face, watching for a hint of recognition or a glimpse of surprise. You see neither.

"Look lady, I don't know you and I don't know no David Andrews," he says. "And if I were you, I'd stay out of prison or anywhere else you might not belong." And with that, he hung up his phone and stood, signaling to his guard that he was ready to return to his cell.

Frustrated, you hang up, your phone, gather your bag and coat and head out, thinking that it took longer to process you through security that it took for you to meet with Walsh.

As you are exiting the building, you hear someone calling your name. You turn to see Sherlock and John coming towards you and you curse internally.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demands.

"None of your business," you huff, crossing your arms in front of you defensively.

"Y/N, please tell me you didn't go see Walsh," John begs.

"He wouldn't talk to me," you sigh. "It doesn't matter."

"It does matter," Sherlock says, impatiently. "You can't be meddling around in this."

"Meddling?" You cry. "He worked for me. He might have stolen secrets from me. I have a right to know where he is and why he did this!"

"You're in over your head," he replies, shoving his hands deep in his coat pockets and turning away from you. "As usual." You feel your blood begin to boil but you refuse to snap at him like you did last night. You take a deep calming breath.

"Look, I will leave Walsh alone, but let me dig around a little more at work and see if I can turn up anything more there," you say, stealing a glance at Sherlock, who only looks annoyed at having to stand out on the sidewalk when he could be inside deducing things about their suspect. "I will call you if I find anything."

You quickly take down John's number, storing it in your phone and the two turn to leave. Sherlock hesitates a moment and turns back to you.

"This is bigger than I think you realize," he warns. "Watch yourself. They know who you are now." His warning makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of knowing that you're spooked. You roll your eyes and walk away, heading to the corner to catch a cab.

* * *

"I already told your pretty little friend," Walsh was saying. "I don't have any idea who this Andrew character is. Sherlock cringes inwardly as this piece of garbage references Y/N.

"Your right eyelid twitched when I said his name," Sherlock pointed out. "And your knuckles turned white when you gripped the phone a little tighter. You know him. You're proud of him. And you were proud of yourself, too, that you'd kept your surrogate doctor son a secret all these years. But we know he is working for you. It's just a matter of time until we find him." Walsh grimaced, his attractive features contorting into an ever more unattractive expression.

"You know what happens when noses start sniffing where they don't belong? They get broke… Even pretty little ones." Sherlock hung up the phone.

"Come on, John," Sherlock said. "Let's go."

The cab ride to the MOD was quiet, Sherlock running a thousand scenarios through his head, each one ending with an image of Y/N in danger.

"Damn that woman," he said out loud.

"What are you going to do?" John asked. "I mean, last night's act is going to be a tough one to follow. Maybe you can insult her grandparents? Or maybe she has a puppy that died when she was young?"

"John, do not make the mistake of thinking that you know her or that you know what happened with us," Sherlock admonished. "She is in a lot of trouble and she has no idea."

They reach Y/N's department and were promptly informed that she was out, off site at a meeting.

"Give me your phone," Sherlock said, reaching out his hand to John. Reluctantly, he hands the phone over and Sherlock pulls up the number he had just entered. It rings and goes to voicemail.

"Y/N call us immediately, I think you may be in danger," he says before hanging up.

"Succinct and to the point," John says, pocketing his phone. "Now what?"

"Let's go see what Lestrade can tell us about Walsh," he answers, his jaw set tight, his mind still whirling around the threatening comment the gangster had made about Y/N earlier. "Damn that woman," he said again, setting off towards the police precinct.

* * *

In between meetings, you dig around in Dr. Andrews' work. Your preliminary search through office records and lab reports reveal nothing out of the ordinary. Frustrated, you call it a day.

You weren't sure if it was the power of suggestion or if you were on to something, but you couldn't' shake the feeling you were being followed on your way home. The tube ride back into town, the walk up from the underground, a quick trip around the market and a short walk to your flat had been filled with furtive glances over your shoulder, and looks into the storefront windows to see who exactly was behind you.

You'd gotten Sherlock's voicemail earlier in the day and promptly deleted it. He was trying to scare you off this case, maybe give you a little payback for encroaching on his work. This situation was too big, however, for you to waste any more time on any of Sherlock Holmes' games.

Arms full of groceries, you jiggle your key in the lock and finally with a click, it opens. It's dark inside, but you don't need light to find your way to the kitchen. You set the groceries down on the counter and then you reach over and flip the light switch.

Without warning, a strong arm is snaking around your neck and pulling you back against a muscular, burly body. You kick out with your legs and claw at the arm with your nails, desperately trying to get away. Another figure appears in front of you, a black ski mask obscuring his face.

"This is your only warning," a gruff voice said. "Get your pretty little nose out places it doesn't belong." As you continue to kick and struggle against the intruder holding you, the other man in front of you pulls on blank leather gloves, tugging them down tight around his wrist and wriggling his fingers. He takes a step towards you and raises his hand. You close your eyes as he brings the back of it down across your face and everything goes black.

You can taste blood in the back of your throat as you struggle to open your eyes. Everything hurts. You push yourself up and look around. You seem to be alone, the scary men from earlier must have left you to bleed all over your floor, which you have done quite well. With shaking hands, you dig your cell phone from your purse, which is still where you left it on counter. You start to dial 999, but think better of it. You pull up John Watson's number and press call. He answers, his voice betraying his relief in hearing from you.

"Hey John, I had some visitors this evening. I think you and Sherlock had better come." Hearing the fear in your voice he promises they are already on their way. You hang up, lock the door again, although it had been locked before and that hasn't stopped your guests from entering to wait for you.

You brave the bathroom, grimacing at your poor, battered reflection. Two big bruises are forming under your eyes, your lip is split and your nose clearly broken. Wetting a face cloth, you dab the dried blood off your face and dig a bag of frozen peas from the freezer.

You wrap yourself in a blanket and snuggle down into your couch, gently pressing the bag of frozen vegetables to your face. Time ticked by slowly as you wait for John and Sherlock. Your flat feels different now… dangerous… threatening.

You nearly jump out of your skin at the frantic banging on the door.

"Y/N?" Sherlock calls from the hall. You rise gingerly and answer the door.

"Oh my god," John gasps at the sight of you and you try to give him a small smile.

"What? Is it bad?" you tease. You open the door wider and the both push past you. You lock, bolt and chain the door behind them.

Sherlock disappears into the flat and your stomach churns at the thought of all that he will be able to deduce from just a quick inspection of your home. John leads you into the kitchen to get a better look at your face.

"Well, your nose is broken," he says, grimly. He pinches it gently and you wince, your eyes tearing up. "It doesn't need to be set, it was a clean break. You will heal up just fine." He replaces the bag of peas with a propper ice pack he's fashioned out of a ziplock bag, towel and ice cubes.

Sherlock has returned and is eyeing you from across the room, arms folded over his chest.

"Nothing out of place?" he asks. You shake your head and he sighs.

"We need to phone Lestrade," John says at last and you know he's right. There will also need to be a report made to your superiors at the MOD and you will have to take time away from the office until your face stops looking like you went several rounds with Mike Tyson.

Lestrade comes and John and Sherlock watch as you give your report. Height, weight, building, accent… there isn't a lot you can say.

"And they told me this was my only warning, to keep my nose out of places it didn't belong…" you tell the Detective Inspector. Sherlock stiffens.

"Were those their exact words?" he asks. You think for a moment.

"His exact words were ' get your pretty little nose out places it doesn't belong '," you recount.

"That is exactly what Walsh said today at the prison," he informs Lestrade. "They know who she is."

"We'll put an officer outside her door," Lestrade says, pulling out his phone.

"We'll stay," John says and Sherlock's eyebrows raised. "Won't we?"

"Fine," he sighs.

"That OK with you?" Lestrade asks you and suddenly you feel exhausted. You don't want them to stay, a uniform in the hall would do just fine, but you have a feeling John will insist so you shrug.

"Keep me informed of any more developments," Lestrade says to Sherlock and John as he leaves. You show the men where there is food in the fridge, where your TV clicker is and give them you wi-fi password before you turn in.

"Thank you for staying," you say, now feeling grateful that it was them and not just an cop parked outside.

"Just get some rest," John says. You try to smile and turn to Sherlock, who simply nods at you. You leave them there, chatting quietly and ready yourself for bed. You pull the blankets up to your chin and close your eyes, the throbbing in your face dulled by two Tylenol you'd taken a short while ago and drift off into a fitful slumber.

You bolt upright in your bed several hours later, a thin layer of sweat coating your skin, making your t-shirt stick to you. You place your hand to your throat, the feeling the the arm that had been wrapped around it in your nightmare lingering even though you were now wide awake.

You're shaking, your heart thudding in your chest. Your apartment was too quiet and for a panicked second, you wonder if John and Sherlock left. You throw the covers back and almost run from your room.

There is one small lamp on in the living area and you see Sherlock perched on your couch, long legs crossed in front of him, his nose in book.

"I sent John home to his wife," he says, looking up from the book at you. You look around your huge, dark flat and shiver. You suddenly hate being here.

"You can go," you say, even though you want nothing more than for him to stay.

"No, I can't," he says, closing the book and setting it on the coffee table. "You're terrified." You sigh and join him on the the couch, leaving plenty of space between the two of you.

"I am sorry," you murmur after a few long, quiet moments. "I shouldn't have gotten involved in this."

"You're right," he says sternly and you feel your blood pressure start to rise. Why did everything he say sound so hateful?

"It wasn't my fault, you know," you bite out at him.

"No one asked you to go speak to Walsh at the prison, Y/N," he replied cooly.

"I'm not talking about Walsh," you reply, heatedly. "I am talking about..us." Sherlock looks away from you and you wish you could see what was playing out on his usually stoic face.

"There was never an 'us'," he replies. You feel tears spring into your eyes and you bite them back.

"There was for me," you whisper. "I don't understand why, all these years later, you are still punishing me for feeling the way I did."

"I'm not punishing you, Y/N," he says, quietly. You stand, needing to leave before you act any more foolish than you already have.

"Well, if this is you being nice," you call over your shoulder, bitterly. "I'd hate to get on your bad side." You close your bedroom door behind you as the first tear falls. Seven years later and you were still crying over Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

Sherlock listened as the door to the bedroom clicked shut. He picked the book back up and opened to the spot where he had left off, but his eyes didn't see the words. He could only see the bright, beautiful young face of Y/N, looking up at him, smiling at him adoringly.

She seemed so different from that young girl who'd come to him all those years ago, searching for answers on the death of her father. There was a fire there that was absent when he'd known her. Back then, she'd been so desperate for closure, so ready to believe that he could save her. And instead, he'd destroyed her.

He'd lied to her tonight, about not punishing her. He lied to her almost the entire time he'd known her. They'd worked side by side on her case, but progress was slow going. She had helped him solve a few other random cases here and there, while they chipped away on hers, finding only a few small clues that pointed towards foul play in the death of her dad.

He knew that she had been falling for him and although he did nothing to encourage her, he did nothing to stop her. He liked her, he liked having a friend, a partner.

He'd entertained the notion of becoming more, of allowing her in and he'd come close, but there were some things even Sherlock Holmes wasn't capable of.

He shut the book again and with a sigh, he rose from the couch. He forced himself in the direction she'd gone off him, taking a quick detour by her medicine cabinet, grabbing some Tylenol and a glass of water for her.

He rapped on the door with his knuckle.

"What?" the angry voice of Y/N called out. Not answering, he pushed the door open.

"It's been 6 hours since you last took some medication," he said, holding out the pills and water her her. She sat and took them wordlessly. If Sherlock was a man who apologized, now would have been a perfect time, but neither of them tried to fool themselves into thinking this was a possibility. Y/N took both, setting the glass down on her nightstand when she was done and settling down in bed again.

"I will just be out here," he said, turning to leave, "If you need anything." She didn't respond.

He returned to the living room, wandering around, looking over her belongings, photos and nick-nacks. He paused in front of a bookshelf and felt a wry smile form on his lips. He reached up and pulled out a collection of James Joyce's short stories. They had always disagreed about her love of Joyce. As he flipped through the worn pages, something fell out and fluttered to the ground. He stooped and picked it up, gently holding it in his long fingers.

It was an old picture of him, standing on the edge of a bluff, wind ruffling his curls, blowing his long trench-coat out behind him. He was looking in her direction, an impatient expression on his face. They'd followed a clue to a small village in North Yorkshire and they'd stopped on the side of the road to stretch their legs. She had insisted on snapping his photo.

Looking down at the picture, he could see the rain clouds off in the distance with him in the foreground, blissfully unaware of the torrents that would sound be bearing down upon them.

He had no pictures of her, save for the ones he kept stored away in his memory and those paled in comparison to the real thing. He tucked the photo back into the book and returned both to the shelf.


End file.
